Natural Writers

Princess K'Gari

Chavez — 2010-08-19T04:13:03Z

It is 6pm and night has fallen on the 10th of June.

I am camping on the shore of Lake McKenzie, on Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world.

Fraser is situated a few kilometres from the eastern seaboard of Australia, 400 kilometres north of Brisbane.

To reach Lake McKenzie, I walked 11 kilometres from the west coast of Fraser Island. The barge, which travels between the continent and the island 3 times a day, dropped me there a few hours earlier.

That night beside the lake the temperature was cool, 13°C.

Winter is upon the southern hemisphere. In Queensland, during the cooler months, temperatures vary between 8°c and 10°c at night and 20 to 23°c during the day. No rain, as winter is traditionally dry in the sub-tropical and tropical regions of Australia.

A few moments before nightfall, silence around the lake is almost complete, briefly interrupted by a few birds. Their calls, rather than spoiling the silence, accentuate it... total peace.

Fraser Island: 123 km long, 14 to 22 km wide. An area of 162,000 to 184,000 hectares, according to the tides.

Fraser Island being made entirely of sand, one may wonder where so much of that material came from. This sand mass is an accumulation of eroded rock from the New England/Great Dividing Range region of NSW, carried out to sea by rivers about 400 million years ago, then swept northwards by coastal currents to form Moreton, Bribie and Fraser Islands. The sand that makes up the Great Sandy National Park comes from that same process of erosion. About 40 different types of sand compose the soil of Fraser Island. Among them, the oceanic sand (usually yellow/gold in colour due to sea minerals and micro nutrients attached to sand granules). Each silica grain is enveloped by a thin film of iron oxide and feldspars. Feldspar retains miniscule amounts of potash and phosphates. Salt spray supplies additional micro nutrients, or the ‘Coffee rock' which is sand cemented into tightly packed formations with humus found along the beaches. Also there is the white sand surrounding the lakes. This sand is virtually pure silica, up to 25m deep and is very low in nutrient levels.

Perched, window and barrage lakes.

Situated at 100 metres in altitude, Lake Mackenzie covers an area of 150 hectares. It has been formed by the wind which blew a depression in the sand. Leaves, barks, and other vegetable matter from the surrounding vegetation accumulated there. The sediments cemented together and formed an impervious layer. Then rainwater created a lake 5 meters deep.

Lake McKenzie, crystal clear water, white sand…

40 lakes sprinkle Fraser Island. They account for half of the world's sand lakes. Some are defined as “perched”, meaning they are not connected to underground waters, namely the water table. Lake Mackenzie is a perched lake. Window lakes are formed where the water table comes to the surface. Finally, a third type of lake is found on the island. These are the barrage lakes. In that case, the wind, by pushing sand against the current of a creek, created a lake.

Wanggoolba Creek and its rainforest.

Lake Wabby, one of the barrage lakes on Fraser Island.

The vegetation

Numerous communities of plants are found on the island. Amazing diversity in regards to the sandy soil on which they strive. On the coastal dunes, the leaves and the fruits of the Angular Pigface, Carpobrotus glaucesens, were eaten by the aborigines. The Pandanus, Pandanus tectorius, can grow to a fair size. The seed of that tree was also appreciated as food by the aborigines.

Angular Pigface.

Pandanus.

A bit more inland, sheltered from the wind and marine salts, larger plants were able to establish. There banksias such as Banksia aemula, or the Grass-Tree, Xanthorrea latifolia, and many more grow.

We are in Australia, and the landscape would not be complete without Eucalyptus.

But one of the peculiarities of Fraser Island, making it a place unique in the world, is the presence of lush rainforests growing on high sand dunes. These rainforests have no reason to envy other tropical rainforests anywhere in the world. They consist of dense canopies, giant ferns, vines, strangler fig trees, orchids, epiphytes, towering trees… Stangler fig tree.

There are also a good numbers of fungi species. These help the rainforest develop and grow. They rapidly recycle dead vegetation, allowing the forest to regenerate quickly despite the lack of nutriments in the soil. Here are some specimens of fungi.

Encounter with the dingoes of Fraser Island

After a night's camping beside Lake McKenzie, I started walking again, this time towards Central Station. On the way, a further 5 km, I had a break at Basin Lake, another perched lake. Having planned to spend the night there, and before I set off again, I managed to secure one of my backpacks in a tree, a few metres above the ground. It is a precaution to take if you want to find your gear in one piece on your return. Indeed, the backpack containing food, could have been ripped to pieces by the dingo, the mighty wild Australian dog. With the increasing number of people visiting the island, encounters with the dingo are on the rise. Out of ignorance, some bush walkers, campers or visitors feed the dingoes. The animals have ended up associating human beings with easy to obtain food. It is therefore absolutely forbidden to interfere with the animals on the island. The national park's service will fine anyone caught feeding a dingo or leaving food available for dingoes to find. A fine of $3000 exists for anyone caught (1). The aim is to stop the animals from becoming dependent on people and also to prevent any possible danger. A few years ago a 9 year old boy was attacked by a pack of dingoes and killed. The dingo is therefore potentially dangerous for human beings. Following that tragedy, and over a two years period, 45 dingoes were shot by the national park service. They were the animals being the most aggressive towards people.

Once my backpack was safe and secure, I started walking again towards Wanggoolba Creek. Shortly before I arrived there, I came face to face with two dingoes, an adult and a young female of about one year old. The female was the boldest of the two, showing a great interest in the other backpack I was still carrying with me, especially when I took out my camera. The animal probably thought I was going to give her something to eat.

The boldest of the two dingoes I came across that day. Maybe a future alpha female (dominant female).

The other animal which stayed behind during the whole encounter.

The pictures are blurred. I didn't have the time to adjust the camera as I had to keep an eye on my backpack and that female which was not shy enough for my liking.

The dingoes of Fraser Island are considered to be the purest dingoes in Australia. In autumn, from March to May, the adults compete to mate. A pack will fight to the death to protect its territory. Some dingoes will also try to dominate humans by snarling, nipping or biting. In winter, from June to August, the whole pack looks after the pups. From September to November, during the spring, the pups learn survival skills from their parents and other members of the pack. From December to February, the young dingoes learn the pack's rules through play, showing aggressive behaviour to gain dominance. The young dingoes will try to dominate people, especially children. Children entangled in dingo play can be mauled or killed. The average number of dingoes found in a pack is 12. There is a strict hierarchy among each member of the pack as well as a defined hunting territory. The pack leaders (one Alpha male and female) are healthier and well fed. Their subordinate dogs are thinner and leaner and they must submit to the dominant pair. They will couch, cough and fold their tails between their legs to gain access to available food. The dominant pair breeds once each year and the other pack members help to raise the pups. The habits of the dingoes are quite similar to the wolves' (Canis lupus). However, the wolf very rarely attacks humans, while the dingo (Canis lupus dingo), is not shy and will come close to people. After this encounter, I kept on walking towards Central Station. There, beautiful Wangoolba Creek runs through the rainforest.

Central Station was a hub of the logging industry up to the 1950's. Huge damage has been caused to the island's environment due to logging and mining from the time of its discovery by Europeans in the early 1800's. Fortunately, since 1992, Fraser has been protected from all industries except tourism. It's also in 1992 that Fraser Island was added to the UNESCO World Heritage list, alongside Colorado's Grand Canyon, the pyramids of Egypt and the Louvre Museum.

Basin Lake

A lot smaller than Lake McKenzie, it is quite easy to walk around Basin Lake in less than half an hour. The lakes of Fraser Island are hosts to several species of amphibians and fresh water turtles. On their banks grows a carnivorous plant, the Spoon-leaf Sundew, Drosera lovellae

The plant attracts insects with a scented liquid. Being sticky, the liquid traps the insects which cannot free themselves. Once the insect is dead, the plant will digest it.

During the night, while camping on the banks of Basin Lake, I was woken up by a howling pack of dingoes. Dingoes howl to keep in touch with the pack. They don't bark which is another common trait with the wolf. It is always pleasant to be woken up in such a way.

Beside the dingoes, several other types of animals cover the forests and the dunes of the island. At least two species of kangaroos live on the island, the swamp wallaby, Wallabia bicolour, and the Eastern Grey Kangaroo, Macropus giganteus. The Eastern Grey is rarely seen, being not a permanent resident of the island. A kangaroo is a pretty good swimmer and, from time to time, it won't hesitate to cross the channel separating Fraser Island from the Australian continent. Quite a few reptiles inhabit the island as well. Forty-six species are officially registered. Among them are a number of snakes including the Carpet Python, Morelia spilota, the Death Adder, Acanthopis antarticus and the Red-Bellied Black Snake, Pseudechis porphyriacus. Note, that the last two are quite venomous but non-aggressive and will stay away from people. Also present is the large lizard species the Lace Monitor, Varanus Varius.

Lace Monitor (Varanus varius)

The waters surrounding Fraser Island shelter a rich animal life. Dugongs, sharks, 5 species of dolphins, 4 of marine turtles and the Humpback Whales, Megapteria novaeanglia, which, from the end of July to November, take a rest here during their migration.

Humpback Whale “breaching” and Fraser Island in the background

A lot of birds inhabit the forests of Fraser Island in total about 350 species. There are also quite a few migratory species which, like the Humpback Whales, will use the area as a resting place during their migration.

Mongolian Plover, Charadrius mongolus. It migrates from Siberia and spends the summer in Asia and Australia.

Bushwalking.

The island can be visited in a 4X4 vehicle, but the softest and most interesting way to explore it is to do it walking. You then experience nature as a whole, while your breathing regulates itself to the rhythm of your footsteps. Your spirit and the surrounding smells and noises become one. You are in symbiosis with the present moment, and, despite the weight of your backpack, you feel lighter. Then, only the moment counts. Those sensations cannot be felt when you travel in a car with air-conditioning. Walking is the most ecologically friendly means of transport and the most economical. In comparison, a car is totally inefficient, in terms of energy consumed and the distance travelled. Walking, it's the use of a free energy in an ecological economy. Fraser Island is a hymn to nature. And the best way to realise it is to explore it by foot, where 4X4 vehicles don't go. That way, trees, flowers, animals will accept you more readily. If you feel bushwalking is the way to go, there is the possibility to do several days walks with Footprints on Fraser, a tour operator specialised in that kind of expedition. Different to the walk I did by myself, Footprints on Fraser uses the camp sites managed by the Island's national parks' service. When camping, I isolated myself to find the inspiration to write this article. Bill Henderson, manager of Footprints on Fraser, takes great pleasure in sharing the spirit of the Island with his clients. See footprintsonfraser.com.au

Bill Henderson, on the left, and one of his guests at the foot of a Tallow wood, Eucalyptus microcorys, Valley of the Giants, Fraser Island.

After one night spent by Basin Lake, I took the direction of the mouth of Wanggoolba Creek (7km), where I caught another barge to get back on the continent. In two days and two nights, I only had a glimpse of the complexity of the ecology of Fraser Island. Yet, even a short stay allows you to take the measure of this area where a multitude of fascinating life forms have established themselves, way before human beings first appeared on earth.

To conclude, here is how the Butchulla people, traditional custodians of the area, explain how the island was created. The name they gave to the island is “Princess K'Gari” (2), meaning paradise. According to the legend, K'gari is the name of the feminine spirit which helped Yindigie, the messenger of the god Beeral, to create the world. To reward her for her help, Beeral changed K'Gari into a beautiful island, covered with trees, flowers and lakes. And, so that she would not feel lonely, he also created birds, animals and human beings.

Life, as a whole, was far from easy for the aboriginal people of Australia. Yet, because of the respect they had for their environment, and with little technology, they managed to live in a harsh environment for at least 50,000 years. Without considering the earth as sacred, they would not have survived.

Notes : (1) On some of the island's camp sites, the national park service has installed shelters where campers can leave their food away from the dingoes.

(2) There is no concept of king, queen, princess in aboriginal tradition. Europeans added the term “Princess” to the name of the island.

Hobosophy on the run

Eerik Wissenz — 2009-02-28T08:45:59Z

After being present for solar energy at the Festival du Vent where we met plenty of green people, we were living in Corsica in a mobile home lent by a friend, hitch hikking with a weekly budget of 10 euros. Then one day we were working at the university of Corte (Corsica) and I come back from a food sting and am ready to eat. But Mike isn't down for the feast ...

What sort of hobosophy is this!?

The Natural Park of Corsica was having a cocktail just outside the building, we never figured out what for, but when it comes to free food, the hobosopher eats whatever and whenever the hobosopher can eat. Gripped with this sudden sense of urgency to eat as many entrées as I can, I run down the flight of stairs and onto the veranda. I switch into calm disinterested mode with a hint of purpose — to discourage any questioning of my activities, yet at the same time not so much as to provoke an attack on my vagrant activities.

I quickly gravitate to the entrées. There are sandwiches. I smoothly take one just in passing. As I begin to coolly eat my prey I realize it is necessary to create some sort of pretext for staying a longer amount of time — a longer amount of sandwich time. A little bit of slight of hand is in order. I casually wander over to the brochure table, and start prodding gently.

I suddenly remember that the Natural Park is one of the things we wanted to talk to, in order to get some solar concentrators up to the mountain refuges. I quickly run through algorithms to combine an excellent reconnaisance opportunity with swiping more than my fair share of sandwiches — fair share being zero.

At this point I notice the light conversation taking place a meter to my left. A women sits on the end of the table like she has a right to be there. I reason she does have a right to be there, and I start looking for an opportunity to approach her … or someone like her … but only after I'm somewhat less hungry. My immediate goal at this point was deciding what to eat next. Sandwich, sandwich desert, sandwich? Or Sandwich, desert, sandwich, sandwich, Sandwich? Or Sandwich, wine, sandwich, desert, desert, sandwich, wine, cheese, sandwich, desert? It was a difficult nut to crack; had there been nuts to crack I would have just eaten those. But without nuts in the picture, this was going to be tough.

As I contemplated how to maximize my good fortune, the discussion to my left suddenly energizes; in retort to a point made by one of her colleagues, which must have been founded on the evidence that there's considerably more free food than people around. the woman proclaims that there's plenty of people interested in the Natural Park.

"Comme qui ?" (Like who?) her colleague rejoinders. "Comme... je ne sais pas mais plein de gens" (Like … plenty of people.) "Par exemple, ce jeune là (such as this this young man?” (gesturing to me prodding the brochures) “Vous êtes intéressé par le parc naturel, n'est-ce pas?" (You're interested in the natural park right?)

“Oui" Yes, I reply, "Je travaille avec des concentrateurs solaires, et j'aimerais mettre des fours solaires dans les refuges de montagne." (I work in solar concentration, and I'd like to put some solar ovens in the refuges.) Jubilant her little ruse succeeded, she turns to jibe her colleagues , and then suddenly does a double take. " ... Quoi?" (… what?)

I slowly slip into the gig. I toss a bit of low tech solar concentration basics into the mix. She doesn't know if she quite understands, but her intrigue leads her on into the depths of the hidden realm of the eco field engineer. I've played this game before. I dance and nimble, I zig and I zag like I'm going nowhere; and yet … and yet I understand the mountain refuges function off gas that has to be brought up by helicopter. Even if it only saves 20 percent of gas, the savings is really double or more, as it reduces, not only the gas for the helicopters, but the maintenance and labour.

I tell her we'd even do it for free, as the goal of our association is to diffuse the technology as far and as efficiently as possible, and so many people pass the refuges that it's an opportunity that cannot be passed up. She suddenly starts to comprehend that my actual interest is ecology, and turns her attention-nob from "intrigued while at the same time it's her job to talk to me" … to high.

Tactically speaking, I probably should have stopped eating the sandwich, but my frontal lobe has a hard time over-riding my brain stem. I manage by continuing to eat, but pretending like I'm not eating so honestly that opposing interlocutor has no choice but to also pretend like it's not happening. It doesn't seem serious, but in france, eating habbits are very, very serious, but I'll talk about that another time.

I ask what's the best way to approach the park, and we switch into serious mode. She explains that the best thing to do is take a meeting with the president in Ajaccio; I ask for numbers, names, addresses, everything. She starts spilling the soon to be solar roasted beans, but I don't have a pen. It's a strategic catastrophe. The first rule in the tacticus (a book of arbitrary rules to keep in mind) is communicate, which means having a writing utensil at all times. I tell her to hang tight, and I run back inside and up the stairs to get a pen.

By the time I rush back, she's brought her boss over. I sing the same tune and he likes what he hears, I whip out the laptop and I explain the technology in more detail. We agree we should have a meeting. I say I'll be in Ajaccio in a couple of days and am available anytime. He responds that if we make the meeting now, it's done: a meeting to make a meeting never happens he says. This wisdom impresses me. Anytime I reply. We make the meeting for next Wednesday at 2 o'clock, we shake hands and then depart. Mike and I debrief, I tell him how it happened, we agree that it's totally awesome. I book it back outside for some more sandwiches. The cocktail has been packed up, the sandwiches are gone.

All is lost.

Such are the sacrifices of the eco field engineer.

Eerik Wissenz
décembre 2007

A day in Cuba

Eerik Wissenz — 2009-02-28T08:37:00Z

I wake up. The air is still.

It is that odd morning hiatus where the wind shifts the night of the sea and the land breeze of the day. It is that uncomfortable time when the warming air from the sun's rise mixes with the intense humidity of the Caribbean Sea. Without wind the dense air builds and thickens upon the surface. To add weight to my murky mind, I have been sleeping in a standard Canadian military issue bivouac bag—an tough air tight bag just large enough for a person to sleep in—which protects me from the elements, but as a consequence protects the elements from me, trapping any moisture my body may perspire in the night. By morning I am slightly damp, but not nearly as damp as outside the bag. The dew is so thick that it pools into small puddles all over the deck and bewteen all the wrinkles on my bag.

I am instantly reminded that the stuffiness of the bag is a small sacrifice for protection not only from dew but also from rain, wind, mosquitoes and other creatures. I peek over the gunwales and gaze at the ocean—there is a railing and various lines that prevent me from falling off. Without a breeze there are no waves. To my dismay, all is still: it is the gentle rocking that makes living on the deck of a boat worth while. Like sleeping in one giant rocking chair.

But nevermind I say. An albatross flies above me. The water is so calm you could walk into the sky. I lay back._ Should I try to go back to sleep, to dreams of increasingly confused hot stuffy swamps, as the rising sun slowly heats my precious bag? Or should I get out of the bag and lie in this sun?

I retreat into the sanctuary of inaction and I delegate all these decisions to time. I was a soldier in another life. My brain is used to dealing with the morning funk of camping out; it is instinctual, requiring no spoken thought. The soldier has perfected ignoring the funk on any higher level of consciousness and is quite able to enjoy the simple pleasure of not being ordered to get up not quite as loudly as you are when in barracks. The air is heavy and slightly sulfurous from a refinery ... somewhere. It adds a sad weight to my funk. Dude, you're in Cuba. How, why, for what purpose. I have no idea.

I am abruptly plunged into funky. And yet … a whimsical funky. After strange disjointed dreams, trying to understand where I am exactly and how exactly I got here brings about a sort of acute sense of absurd apprehension. I am in a ridiculous situation brought about by wanderings into the unknown, a confluence of destinies, and meeting ridiculously sane people. Mel's a pretty good example.

“Can we … um … you see …er would it be possible uh … Can we sleep on the deck of your boat?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. Sweet. Thanks.” Problem solved.

Recalling this and other crucial, unpredictable moments, I am filled with a sort of strange, tepid mirth. And yet … there is also this nearly fearful suspense. How stable is this situation? Will today present some seemingly unlovable problem that would require some even more uncomfortable solution? Will we run out our welcome? Run afoul of the law? Fall ill? Will this fragile world we have somehow strode into shatter down around us? Perhaps. But where would that leave us? And what would we do?

The impossible we can do right away, miracles take a little longer. The words of Rick, a skipper who moored at these docks a few days ago, drift through my head. I mull his saying slowly over in my mind's eye. It is like a giant protozoa gently tumbling through the calm waters of my dull morning thought. I repeat the saying for prosperity. It gives me confidence. It is good to know there is at least a saying we can say when we meet whatever doom that is no doubt in store for us. Our reckless folly has brought us comfort where it should have brought us strife. A small trail, where it should have brought us a whole. A way out, maybe, where we should be beaten down and held fast by the skepticism of society.

The protozoa lingers for a moment before slowly joining up with the words of my co-conspirator, who I check and see is still asleep in his bag just aft of myself, “I like the fact that we're invincible. You know, in the Consolation of Philosophy sense. Failure here would simply make our lives more interesting.”

So my apprehension gives way to a sort of happy anxiousness. If our project fails here—as in, the Cuban government asks us to leave, or everything we think is true is false, or something we cannot even begin to imagine occurs, none of which so far seems likely—we'll hitchhike down the archipelago from boat to boat, island to island and someday make it to the South American mainland. We'll winde our way through Venezuela, Brazil, Peru then maybe east toward Africa or west toward Indonesia and India or perhaps back north to Mexico, who knows. I'm comforted by the idea that our mission would not even die with us. The seeds would be planted ... I hope.

Ah, but I am in Cuba. It is that conundrum of space and time once again. I can only ever see what I am seeing, and so as far as I can tell my position never changes. Yet had we not gotten up and gone we would still be back in Canada. A place that is now so far away I cannot even comprehend how far away it is.

I crawl out of my bag, pull the opening shut and fold it under, as not to be thwarted by a chance rain. I lay on the deck, cover my face with my arms, and wait for my fellow adventurer to rise.

He rises. We say few words to each other as we go about our short morning routine of gathering the various objects from our various closets (as in bags strapped to the deck) and packing our daypacks.

“Shall we go?”

We grab our packs and we go. Out the marina, over a road, through a field, across the old abandoned tarmac, and into another field. We walk down a path lined with garbage, as horses graze and children play baseball in the grass to our left and oil wells slowly turn to our right.

The beauty of the field and the grossness of the garbage, the sustainability of walking down a path and the unsustainability of the oil wells, the intelligence in a horses face and the absurd sprawling of this suburban landscape, the joy of the children and the sadness of the earth. You are one degree away from everything here, the good and the bad in this world. The slowly silent contemplation breaks suddenly upon calm shores of thoughts.

“The more pervasive dependence becomes, the less likely a person is to become independent in mind. If a person is not presented with alternate positions they are not as likely to reject their dependence in forming decisions,” my comrade interjects, continuing our ongoing discussion about independence of mind.

We walk on in thought. I slowly form a reply: “Or is it more likely that the more pervasive dependence of mind becomes, the harder it is to be dependent? For if we were all dependent, then I would come to you to make a decision, but you would have to go to somebody else to decide what to tell me, and they would have to go again elsewhere, and elsewhere and elsewhere ad infinitum. Would not the absurdity quickly build up until someone gets fed up, makes a decision without consulting further, and sends it down the line?

“But even so ..." I continue to slowly, in order to make it clear I have no idea what I'm talking about, "I am not convinced the social environment affects the level of independence of mind at all. How can independence of mind be dependent on anything?”

The sun crests over the downtrodden soviet era apartment buildings. We pass between a few buildings. We both know the drill: to the market for some pizza, there is no time to cook food at our friend Rafael's house. We have things to accomplish today.

We weave through the devious labyrinth of unmarked streets that took us a couple of weeks to figure out. A turn here, a zig there, down a path, through a hole in the wall, and into the market. We eye some bananas as we make our way across the market to the pizza stand. We pick up some pizzas, and we pick up the bananas on our way out. Down another path.

We arrive at our workshop tucked away in the narrow streets. It's also a scrap yard, a basketball court, and a goat pen. We shake hands with rocks-for-hands, the owner of the establishment, and his handymen. We call him rocks-for-hands because he's got rocks for hands. They fix things and they make things, they make things by refixing them and they fix things by remaking them. We're making use of some of their workspace and tools because we met a guy who knows a guy who knows this guy, who's interested enough in seeing our crazy project come about.

“Hola ?Que onda?” Hello, what's the vibe?

“Bueno ?Como estas?” Good, how's it going?

“No sez. Vamos a ver como fue nuestro experimento. Ojala que todo esta bien. Si tuvimos exito, in dos dias voy a hacer te desayuno” I don't know. We'll see how our experiment went. I hope it went well. If we were successful I'll cook you breakfast in a couple of days.”

“Que bien, me gusta huevos revueltos. Bueno suerte.” Good, I like my eggs scrambled. Good luck.

We briefly discuss methods and material, and then they return to their work of building a freezer from scratch, and we get down to why we have come to Cuba: solar concentrators.

It is estimated that 2.4 billion people rely on biomass to cook (World Energy Outlook 2002. OECD/IEA. Paris.)—a limited, gradually depleting supply, that costs energy to gather and causes respiratory problems. It is estimated that 1.6 million people die a year from such pollution (same source).

There is an alternative: to effectively harness the sun's energy. Around one thousand trillion kilowatt-hours hit the earth each day [our own calculation, we shall try to get an official figure]. With 270 mirrors just so you can boil a liter of water in five minutes without any fuel cost. However, if all the mirrors are just a few degrees off, the machine is essentially useless. It is a simple matter of getting the correct angles as simply and with the least amount of labour as possible. A configuration of wood and screws allows us to achieve a tenth of a degree of accuracy in our master compound mirror, which we then use to make a mold which we then use to make copies of the compound mirror.

We have built the frame for our concentrator, and the little metal bits that attach and aim our compound mirror at the target. Yesterday we set our first nine mirrors on our first mold and glued them together. We take the finished compound mirror off it's mold and eye the mirrors for errors … we find no error! and so place it on the frame and adjust it to hit the target. The focal point is a tight box. It works! Our craftsmanship and improvised Cuban solutions have functioned! We celebrate with a victory hack. After kicking around the hacky sack for a few minutes we descend the ladder to set the concrete for the rest of our compound mirror molds.

We must wait for Danilo, the cement man to return. Not only does he have the cement, he knows in what proportions to mix it. He will return en la noche. We work on getting some minor welding done that we have procrastinated doing. Our welding done, we head over to the market to get a few groceries, and from there, to our friend Rafeal's house to hang out, fix ourselves some mash and maybe clock some reading and writing. He's not home but there is a secret key.

“But then how does one person become independent in their thinking and another not?”

I consider his words. “Well, it can't be controlled through exterior forces, or it wouldn't be independence. The only other explanation as far as I can see is what, for lack of better words, I call a ‘pure act of will'.”

I furrow my brow. Is the will describable? Can it be talked about? Is it as Kant says? That it cannot be described or observed, but that we must assume it is there. I continue on the chance I am talking about what I am trying to talk about, “I do not think this is so evasive a theory, so unsatisfactory an explanation. Mustn't there be a prime mover within the mind? Is it not the will? And if it is the will wouldn't the will be responsible for our decisions?”

We rinse some beans and peal some malanga, a root that is slimy on the inside but ends up like potato, we huck them into the pressure cooker with some onion, garlic and water, and get down to some reading and writing. After thirty minutes or so we rinse and throw in some rice, onions, carrots, cabbage and another cup of water.

“But if someone is dependent in mind then they are dependent on exterior forces to make decisions… how could they then decide to make decisions independently without that which they are dependent upon?”

It seems that they can't, if they are dependent in mind. But as I peer into the depths of my contemplation I do not sense this fault is a paradox in the argument. It is our words that are imprecise as far as I can tell. “I think we were mistaken in talking about independence and dependence of mind as absolute states of being: that you either are or you aren't. It is decisions that can be dependent or independent. I can will myself to think something through and diligently consider all the information and advice at my disposal in one thing, and in the next moment I may not will myself to think anymore, and I just do what is expected, suggested, educated or indoctrinated. Dependence and independence I think are descriptions of decisions people make not people themselves. People themselves always decide between the path of least resistance and trying to figure out what is actually reasonable, else it would be as you say: no one dependent in thought could ever think independently.”

Twenty minutes pass and our food is done. We dine to an explosion of bland. It's all the body needs but we cannot lie and say it hasn't worn on our morale. We'll have to find some new dishes one of these days, or learn the secrets of the Cuban congris.

The sun eventually sets and we make it back to the workshop. Danilo is back (he lives across the street). We prep the master mirrors and Danilo mixes the cement and pours it in. In about a day we'll be left with solid rocks. We leave them to dry, say our farewells, and head back to the marina.

We sit under an over hang that has some lights and some chairs. We discuss various schemes. Perhaps because we are in a marina surrounded by boats, our conversation quickly turns towards our ploy to acquire a sailboat. If we start seeing diminishing returns on our labour here, we'll keep going around the Caribbean and South America building the concentrators with anyone who's interested and leaving them in pueblos and villages. Hopefully we'll become self-propagating somehow and just keep gong. However, in maybe a year, if we're not advancing at full speed, we might hitch hike back up to Canada, do some tree planting for a season, which involves pretty good pay with little living expenses, and buy a sail boat. With a boat we could carry our tools with us, as well as a working models of the concentrators—there are three models for various energy levels and purposes—not to mention we would have a place to sleep.

Our biggest limiting factors are that when we show up to a new place we only have our assurance that the concentrators are as powerful and convenient as a stove and oven, as well as then having to track down some of the less common tools. With a boat there would be none of those small hang-ups and we could progress the project as fast as the wind takes us. In our wake we'd leave concentrators, mirror molds, and blue prints. We'd then cut across the Atlantic to Africa and just keep going.

As the night wore on, my eyes, my mind and my breast began to sink. I did some stretches and some pushups and then I hit the sack. After maneuvering my sheets and my blanket around in my bag, my roof, my closet, my home, I eventually settled into an acceptable arrangement. A pleasant breeze blew, the boat rocked upon the sea, and no mosquito flew. I gazed up at the swaying sky, at cirrocumulus and altostratus ebb and flowed across the moon. I studied once more the Big Dipper, and traced Polaris true. I looked out upon the water, and recalled the Ancient Mariner.

‘He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us; He made and loveth all.'

The mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.'

In search of truth

Eerik Wissenz — 2009-02-28T08:32:38Z

I recall one of my earliest puzzlements when I was a child would strike my soul with such force that all my ideas would fall away to specs on the horizons of consciousness, so unfit were they to offer any kind of advice as to how to deal with the question that for whatever reason had never occurred to me before. There I would sit on an ocean of doubt wondering why I was I and not someone else at some other time.

This was so unfamiliar a sort of question, and so inapplicable was my previous experience with questions that I had no tools or methods with which to start trying to make sense of this strange inquiry. It is often the case that even if you do not know how to precede you may at least have something to try in the mean time, and so in such a way keep yourself occupied while coming to understand a bit about the nature of the problem by finding a series of things that don't work. Unfortunately, in this case my experience had nothing to offer, and this makes a certain amount of sense, for my experience was my experience and never had experienced being something else. So, without any ideas to work with, I could not lose myself in contemplation without worry as to the extent of the task, diligently toiling away, content when any advancement is made, no matter how small. My thinking would stop, my mind would cease, and I would gaze out into the universe in a silence. Without any point to focus my attention on I could only float through the infinite vastness of my ignorance. It seemed I was forever trapped in this prison of distance, were the only ideas I could know were but vague wisps of fog above the river of things.

Can not once I reach out and bring this water to my lips? It seemed completely unfair. However, after some time this question of why I wasn't someone else, gave way to the question of what was I to begin with, altogether a much simpler and agreeable question. Regardless of how I came to be, I was something after all. I found two approaches. I was what I perceived, I thought, and I willed - but only was I this to myself. To everyone else I am how they happen to be affected by me. If I am to define my nature precisely to someone else, it would seem the only way they could be sure to make sense of it would be if I described what I would do. Since I didn't see how to go about defining the nature of myself under the first method, I concentrated on the second. This second approach may not define me completely I admitted, but it would certainly be a start.

To give a complete description I would have to recount what I would do in every single situation, as I could see no lines I could draw. If it was necessary to give an account of one situation, I saw no reason to ignore the next slightly less probable situation, and the slightly less probable situation after that; since I saw no contradiction in attempting to decide what I would do in every situation, I attempted to do so. Whether I could or not, I reasoned I would find out. With this in mind, if ever I came across a circumstance, here, there, or only in the maze of my imagination, that I did not know what I would do within, I would think about it, sometimes for years, until I was satisfied I had good reasons to do what I decided - though this was usually not a specific thing but rather a group of things I may do, or more precisely a group of conditions which an infinite amount of specific actions could satisfy. For though I had no overall system, I certainly thought there was certain things I should do some of the time, and certain things I should try to avoid some of the time. However, though many things I was almost certain I would do, and other things I was almost certain would be worth doing, why exactly these seemed so convincing I didn't quite know, and so not altogether convinced of my decisions, but I plodded on in my pursuit to cover every possible circumstance.

As an extension of this I also wondered what if anything society should look like. For many if not all decisions, which I actually had to make or simply hypothetical, I found to one extreme or another to be dependent on some idea of what society should be. Indeed, even if I was trapped on an island I would still form a society of sorts. For instance, though I may not know the meaning of life, killing everyone I saw certainly didn't seem to have any sense, so even just on the strength of this I could decide that I wouldn't try to kill everyone I saw. In so doing I was proposing that society shouldn't be a group of people continuously trying to kill each other.

However, though certain things seemed obviously agreeable - like a minimum of torturous suffering and reckless murdering¾a simple absence of these or other unpleasant things did not seem to be an answer to the meaning of life.

For every system I encountered or invented I would say to myself: let's imagine that society actually did what was proposed here, what then? My mind would slowly turn, but I always came to the same problem, which was that at some point the story ends. I would without fail conclude with being among some unobtrusive people in some unobtrusive architecture, with nothing really to do. Isn't anything that stays the same become boring? Aren't goals meant to be achieved, and so once achieved there is nothing to do? Can't all action be thought of as pursuing a goal?

One way out was to include the goal of always having a goal, but this seemed as equally pointless as having no goal at all. I certainly considered myself to be motivated to reduce or prevent torturous suffering and reckless murdering, but I could not in the end see the motivation for continuing society in any state I could imagine. All these ethical and political theories, if their principles were realized, seemed to propose a sort of purposeless group of people just mulling around.

All this also coincided with my realization that my life was completely devoid of any meaning. I would want something for a few days, and try to get it. If it came, I'd be happy, and if it didn't I'd be sad, but in the end I always returned to wanting something for a few days. Once I became aware of the pattern clearly, I started questioning these previously unquestioned ambitions. I would sit down and say to myself: let's imagine that I actually got what I want. Sure, it would be great for a short time, but what then? Perhaps I could imagine wanting something else: well, what if I got that too? And the next. What if I continued this exercise indefinitely? I could never imagine ever coming to some arrangement of things which I would be content with, no matter how hard or fantastically I tried. This very much disturbed me. Would I even be bored in paradise, where such a story of ambitions could be continued forever?

I wasn't satisfied with simply defining paradise as that place you are always happy and content. Simply because we can attach conditions to terms we invent does not mean those conditions can actually be met. If true goodness existed it had to at least be conceivable. But I could not imagine such a thing, no matter how extraordinary, and this troubled me.

So I thought about these things almost all the time. Thoughts that were always there, poured over the entire mind. Almost everything that happened, every problem I met with, whether in math, physics, literature, chess, society, hockey, rugby or something else entirely had something in it that tied itself into my larger thought. Ever so slowly they'd grow and grow, and each piece of knowledge slowly connected with everything other piece of knowledge, and even these large thoughts would slowly connect with each other. Soon everything was either a proof of the thousands upon thousands of arguments that made up my pondering, or a consequence of them. Everything that happened, everything that was said, my mind would see further and further the things connected to it, the things behind it, the things that could be and the things that most likely wouldn't. The things that made sense made more sense, and the things that did not make sense, the errors in them became clearer.

Thus went my effort day in and day out no matter what I did, no matter what I do. Sometimes toiling away at a very specific analysis, sometimes sitting in contemplation of the whole, sometimes letting loose the imagination, and sometimes thinking what I can while occupied with more uninteresting tasks. But this is not to say certain activities did not advanced my thinking further than others. I didn't know if there was anything that was completely devoid of boringness, but I was convinced certain things were full of it.

I became especially critical of the education system in which I seemed to be trapped. For the more one understands, the more one comes to know efficient ways of understanding. My goal was to learn. At first I thought this would be an advantage in school, but I discovered the case to be quite the contrary. I had developed some general rules about learning that I liked to follow and that the school system did not. Since this was a house of reason I reasoned it was up to the school system to prove that their method was superior or at the very least that my method was not. However, all this rested on the idea that school was actually about learning. So they decided, in their ostentatious haughtiness, that if they simply didn't grant me this premise, my argument wouldn't function. A clever pan, there can be no doubt, but they forgot one thing: this was a completely absurd way to run an education system. I was fairly certain of this, and so I set out to prove it.

However, no matter how many contradictions I could point out, no matter how many of the real situations I could recount, that were clearly bad and clearly a result of the contradictions I previously pointed out, I was always met after brushing aside a series of quibbles with one rebuttal: “Do you have a better idea!” Now, I knew this was an invalid argument. Even if I don't have a solution, it doesn't mean a problem is somehow less of a problem. Furthermore, if it is really a problem (and they were certainly welcome to show that it wasn't, if they could) is it really reasonable that the entire burden of finding a solution fall on my shoulders. If something really is a problem isn't the first step in the solution making as many people aware of it, and some social effort started concerning it (some problems can be fairly complex after all), not demanding that the people that point out the problem and try to describe the exact nature of the problem find a solution or quit talking about it? However, I couldn't convince them of this, and so decided to meet their unreasonable criteria, just to show'em.

My idea at first was simply that if we try to understand and correct contradictions and inefficiencies when we find them, bit by bit the system will become better. However, this wasn't a very popular idea, for people have an uncanny ability to imagine that any change would bring about either cataclysmic catastrophe or produce just as bad things somewhere else and so not actually be any better - they have an even cannier ability to claim these points are indisputable. So I'd start talking about the different factors at play, and small things we could do, problems we might encounter, approaches we could take, and maybe big things that we could start considering and discussing. But there was already a ready reply: “That would never work!”

It was really a beautiful argument: the contradictions could only be resolved by doing something really drastic, but clearly nothing drastic ever works. Despite this fortress of logic I would struggled against all sound strategic advice to advance my ideas, no matter how futile it seemed. Again and again I would have the same discussion and end up with the same defeat. I soon discovered that if my idea was in any way complex - as in took more than a minute to say¾it satisfied the condition of being too radical to possibly function, and if I tried to explain that it really wasn't all that radical this just made matters longer, more complex, and altogether a whole lot worse for my point.

After many tries I discovered that if I limited myself to something so simple and obvious it can't really be argued with, then the discussion could progress just a little bit further. For instance, eventually I had a bit of success with the fact that I read through the entire education related legislation of our province and no where in it did it say education was about learning things. Isn't this a bit odd? I would ask. Shouldn't we at least say that the point of school is learning things? It couldn't hurt could it? - Well … I suppose not … but it wouldn't matter anyways.

So this was some advancement but a similar problem ensued. Anything that was so simple couldn't possibly have any real affect and so there's no point in making the improvement to begin with. I ran into this argument everywhere, with essentially everything. In general, it's abnormal to consider there's a problem with normal, so since it's normal to be normal you can only ever make normal improvements if any improvement at all. There can't possibly be a problem with the normal system, or else why would everyone in the world think that way?

I became quite frustrated with this, because it seemed quite obvious to me that the world isn't a good place¾a lot of people don't have access to even the basic requirements to live, there are wars, famines, genocide, torture, indifference and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Clearly this is a result of what most people tend to do, what is normal. If it's crazy to destroy the world, then it's complete insanity to be normal, and so the only sanity is craziness. But who ever started this movement new what they were doing. If you're normal it's abnormal to even consider normal is crazy. So if normal is actually crazy, then if your normal you can't possibly become uncrazy, and being crazy and not being able to become uncrazy really is crazy. So the only way to possibly ever be sure that you're sane is to be crazy to begin with. So even if my crazy plans were crazy, which was clearly false, craziness is what we're looking for, so you couldn't possibly dismiss such things in any case.

I could make small advancements but my discussions would always end with an angry, “Well what's your better idea - few seconds of response - Ha! that is so extreme and ridiculous I can't believe you would ever think that - few seconds of asking for a reason - This is so idiotic I don't eve want to talk about it - …bu… - I said it's a waste of my time and I don't want to talk about it!”

This continued on for a bit until I was drafted into the Finnish military. I had lived in Canada my whole life, and I didn't speak Finnish, so I didn't have many responsibilities since I couldn't make any decisions not being able to communicate them, didn't have that much opportunity to talk, couldn't really understand much less criticize the system I was in, so didn't have much to think about, nor could I use my intellectual and oratory abilities to improve my situation in any way, which usually occupies at least some of my mind. In general I never had a clue what was going on, and so, usually unable to prepare myself for the near future, I spent most of my time waiting for things to happen, in order to follow what people seemed to be doing in a refined sort of panic. Having rarely something relevant to my situation to think about between these dense packages of panic, as picking out any clues about the future in the indecipherable Finnish language was quite out of the question, in a couple of months I basically thought through everything I could possibly think through - my whole life, what math or physics I knew, what philosophy I knew, the people I knew, the mistakes I have made, my weaknesses, my strengths, were I was going, were I had gone etc. - and having no energy or time to read anything new, I soon had nothing to think of except those things I could think up myself. I thought about everything I had been thinking about, all the problems in society, all the difficulties I had discussing things with anybody, and one day I was on leave and I sat down with nothing and said, “All right, what really is reasonable? If I can't find an answer I can't be reasonable can I, and so would have to be crazy all along, even if it was sane.”

So I sat down and I thought, and I stared at what I hadn't written and it didn't seem do be anything¾I had to admit that I hadn't made much progress in my eighteen years of so called life. Where to begin? What was reasonable? Certainly it would be completely unreasonable if there wasn't an answer. Now that would be crazy, I was almost sure of it.

After a while I got passed the initial blankness and started to consider. Clearly I was writing some sort of philosophy. So starting with what philosophy actually is, is at least a start. I wasn't sure of much, but I was sure of that. What is philosophy was one of the first philosophical problems I ever plied my mind against, so I figured I had a head start. When I first started studying philosophy I found it completely preposterous that philosophers couldn't even agree as to what philosophy was. This just wouldn't do I said. So I decided to solve the problem. It certainly couldn't be a specific philosophy or way of looking at the world, otherwise there'd be a philosopher that disagrees, and that would do even less. Philosophers were famous for the skill of having nothing in common, so what did they all have in common that we call them all philosophers?

Many years ago I concluded that no matter what a philosopher thinks, they're all trying to provoke thoughts in others, communicate ideas if you will. Couldn't do philosophy without communicating ideas, so philosophy couldn't be anything else, I reasoned. Now the weaknesses in this is that the latter didn't imply the former, as every attempt to communicate was an attempt to communicate some sort of idea, even if it's just ‘look at me, I'm screaming in a completely random way.' Philosophy is the attempt to communicate philosophical ideas, and this is a very different thing. At the time I tried to add a whole bunch of conditions to narrow the field - such as: philosophy is, among other things, the communication of ideas that one actually has, and not the communication of the idea that one has no idea¾but this strategy always leads to never being able to narrow it precisely, like trying to define a tree as not a dog, not a cat, not a moon, not a spoon - you can just keep going and never get there.

Some had proposed the idea that everything was philosophy, but then why have the term at all? Now everything could be philosophy, but that would mean everybody's a philosopher. Now everybody could be a philosopher, but you'd never get a philosopher to admit it. So this sort of line won't do at all.

This time around I decided I'd really solve the problem. There must be something that narrows a thing, which could be anything, down to philosophy, which is something in particular. So I thought and I thought about every philosopher I'd ever come across and I tried to come up with a definition they'd all be satisfied with.

The only solution I found was the search for truth. Whatever disagreement two philosophers might have, they were both at least searching for whether what the other says is true¾and, if they are wise, what they say as well¾even if they are quite certain it's not. You really couldn't do philosophy without searching for the truth of things, at least from time to time. And it really didn't seem to be the case that every conversation people wouldn't call philosophical was a search for the truth of something.

Now, if philosophy was reasonable, and philosophy included searching for the some of the truth of things, it seemed that the answer to what was reasonable, at least includes some searching for truth - that is, if what was reasonable was anything at all. Indeed, without searching for the truth of things from time to time you can't even know anything¾where your trousers are, where the water is, what your hand does - you couldn't even function without some searching for truth. So searching for some truth seemed to be clearly at least part of my answer.

So the next question was, how much truth exactly is it reasonable to search for, and what should I do the rest of the time? But before trying to figure this out I decided to solidify the little progress I had made, make sure I had actually made it. I was at the time in the habit of proving even obvious things, as it is quite pointless to continue an argument if there is any doubt in any of the steps taken, and people tended to doubt most if not all of my steps¾not to mention that even seemingly obvious principles can have very tricky boundaries of where they are and are not valid, and so by proving their validity one consequently proves where they are valid, unless one is writing backwards of course. In that case everything is reversed.

So after some thought I concluded that if anything else was proposed as what one should do apart from search for truth, this would clearly depend on whether it was true or not. So, if it actually was true, the only way to come to know it would be to search for the truth of the matter. So even if there were other things worth doing apart from a search for truth, those things would only be part of the search for some truth, not actually something else¾as finding can also be a part of searching without this being a contradiction, quite the opposite in fact. So it seemed that the only reasonable thing, could be and only be the search for some truth.

Or, put another way, let us imagine an interlocutor, no matter how clever, proposes ‘The' or ‘their' purpose of existence as anything other than the search for some truth - be it success, the fulfillment of wants, enjoyment, happiness or at least believing one is happy, or anything at all - Is this the truth of the matter? I would ask.

If they answer yes, then clearly they're not disputing searching for truth as the fundamental purpose, they're simply claiming they have already found it. A claim we would have to verify. If there is a way to verify it without first searching for exactly what it is, and then whether or not it is true, I haven't heard about it.

If they answer no, then I would - after brief but certain puzzlement - ask how exactly do they know there is not some superior purpose in existence for existence? If they venture an answer then clearly they should have answered yes to the original question, which we have already dealt with. If they don't answer then I would ask why they think I should accept their idea if they themselves don't even know it is true?

If they answer that they do not know, then I would suggest they try to find out, and everybody knows that trying to find out is the same as searching … everyone I know anyway.

So they are either suggesting that you search for the truth of the matter, which we are already in agreement with, or what they say really is true, and you really should do it, in which case there can't be a problem; if it really is the truth, well that's exactly what we're looking for. It would be a strange sort of occurrence if voyagers where confused by actually getting to where they are trying to go. Thus, any attack on the philosophy just supports it, and so if one shouldn't do anything else, one should do it.

So, one should search for some truth. Now I must confess that at first I felt very strange about all this. I had just established an ethics (an idea of what I should do) which was, when I thought about it, extremely strict, since I could search for some truth in every single situation, yet it wasn't like any other ethic I had ever come across. Most ethics I was familiar with were either fine principles that couldn't in the end resolve matters exactly, a list of what one should or should not do, or too vague to have any meaning. Either way, these ethical systems usually had specific things they justified or attempted to justify, whether in the theory itself, or in the mind of the person proposing it. Or in other words, an idea of what life would look like, a group of life styles, for lack of a better word, generally came to mind when one thought about life under the ethical system in question, even the ones that didn't really mean anything.

I had just began operating under an ethical system, according to a rule I could follow every moment of my existence, and yet what this actually meant in terms of what I would do and how I would live was completely unclear. This was very strange, and at first I felt quite awkward, but after thinking for a few days I concluded that certain actions would lead to understanding more truth than others, if there was any truth at all. If I knew any truth at all I could certainly imagine never having learnt it, and if there wasn't any truth, well I could never come to know it¾indeed, if there wasn't any truth I couldn't actually be wrong about anything anyway. Fortunately though, certain things were true and I was pretty sure I knew some of it. Something exists after all, and I couldn't be convinced otherwise, for as long as I be in any case.

But … how do I search for truth? What truths should I search for? I could go out and count every blade of grass on the lawn and come to understand many things about counting things and blades of grass, but was this really what my new life style suggested? I thought about all the seemingly absurd searches for some truth I could undertake, as everything you can do leads to some truth - at the very least the truth about what it is like to do it. But not everything you can do seems reasonable. If everything was reasonable according to my definition, I certainly hadn't gotten far¾indeed, not having this principle would be reasonable as well. But what could be made of this? Was my principle somehow unsound? Could searching for truth lead to completely absurd things? Or was my concept of absurdity, what was actually absurd. I thought this over for some time, and eventually asked myself why these seemingly absurd things were absurd, and I concluded that it was because they generally lead to an early death. If I did nothing but count grass I'd soon die. Now my principle wasn't “avoid death if you can” it was “search for some truth”, however, I couldn't search for anything if I was dead. Or more precisely, I couldn't search for some truth if I ceased to exist. So, it seemed I needed to continue to exist to search for some truth, and I needed various truths to continue to exist.

This solved my problem of not being able to decide which truths to search for. I should at least search for the truths that will allow me to search for other truths whatever they may be. Now this was very characteristic of my thinking. So if in my search I found that it is true that I needed to do something to search for other truths effectively, then I should do it.

It also seemed wise to me that it was more efficient to search for truth in collaboration other people that were also sufficiently searching for some truth to some degree or another. Basically if someone doesn't impede me from searching for truth and continuing my existence, and is searching for more than no truth, then it is possible to cooperate (some could be just, were the door is, what the time is, etc). For cooperation actually to occur between myself and someone so inclined, fortune must first put us into conscious interaction with each other, then we must ultimately have an sufficient agreement on how to proceed.

Now the first two principles form the foundation of the ethics, the third is derived from the carrying out of the first two. However, even if everyone on earth agreed with these principles (and agreed on the strategy and science as to how to carry them out), conflict could still arise.

Eerik Wissenz
July 2007

Havana to Paris

Eva Wissenz — 2009-01-23T21:12:25Z

Havana to Paris

I sat in the airport in Havana, I waited alone for the plane, and I was glad to be leaving just after six months there. To where I was going, however, was an entirely different matter. I was glad to be leaving Havana, as the pollution is thick and the dust is thick, and we often slept on the floor. It was five floors down to running water, and buses never came on the hour. It was not that we did not do what we had set out to do, that we clearly did. Testing solar technology in poor conditions went very well, but our living conditions went not. We did not eat well, and we did not sleep well, and we did not breath well in Havana. Except for the air however, Havana was not to blame, a strange set of circumstances kept us from living that good, and our bodies and minds slowly wore. A bizarre situation we entered, and we lacked vitamins and variety, and our bodies and minds slowly wore ; the students we lived with went to bed late, and we could not nap in the day. But a strange set of circumstances allowed us to live in Havana, and advance the work we had come to advance, beyond what we thought we could do. So though I was glad to be leaving, it was only because no more could we do, and now our visas were gone, and elsewhere there was work to be done. I was glad we had gone to Havana, but that is another adventure.

I laid down on a bench in the airport and pondered that slow sort of ponder, where there was no use in thought for the future as there was no information whatever. What would happen in Paris ? was something I couldn't predict. I couldn't predict in the slightest. It could be good and it could be bad and it could be something I can't even imagine. So there was no use thinking of Paris, but there was nothing else needing thought. So I wondered what would happen in Paris, and pondered that slow sort of ponder, that slow slightly uneasy ponder, just wanting to make it to Paris, no surprises till I made it to Paris : that I was at the right gate for the right plane, at the right time of day, and the authorities would let me escape. For whatever happens in Paris, I'll at least be on the right land mass, the land mass where the things I think need doing can be done. I could see no way there'd be a surprise, I saw no problem to solve, so I pondered that slow sort of ponder, and waited for the plane to arrive. I was filled with that feeling only the true adventurer feels. It is not fear, nor is it excitation. It is not expectation, nor is nervousness. It is only the simple knowledge that one is about to pass through a door, walk down a path, and cross a bridge and one would not look back.

The plane was another dimension where there was nothing that could go wrong. The plane could crash of course, but that would be fine with me. My ethics clearly state, that I need but to try my best. So if I try and fail, due to circumstance beyond my control, then I'd have done what I set out to do. A crash, or a fall, or a heart attack would be a noble enough end, to let's hope a noble journey. But though it might be convenient it is no use thinking of, for those circumstances beyond your control, one cannot control. I couldn't know what would happen in Paris, and I didn't have to stay aware : nothing I could see could go wrong. For the plane ride to Paris, for that brief plane ride to Paris, I didn't have any cares. I ordered as much juice as I dared, and I slept without any fear. I was shocked by the incredible opulence, but little thought did I have to spare. More juice s'il vous plaît, more juice.

So the plane lands in Paris, and I got off with my bag of assumptions. Six months ago in Ottawa, we packed in just over two days, and set out by bus to Miami, to find some way to make it to Cuba. To the Bahamas was our plan, as there is an embargo with Cuba. To where we would go we didn't know, nor did we know who we'd meet. We had but our bag of assumptions, which told us things would go pretty sweet. We knew many of these assumptions were most likely wrong, but we had brought something for that along. We also assumed that when an assumption was wrong, we'd find some other way around it. This was to be sure an assumption as well, but we were confident that if it turned out to be wrong, we'd find some way around it. For that is the advantage of studying logic, plans can be made out nothing, and one can feel confident about them, for they are logically sound. Yes plans can be made out of nothing, and to nothing they often amount. However, if you looked into our trusty bag, you'd see we were prepared, for we assumed that this would not be our case, and that if this assumption was wrong, we'd find someway around it. Essentially all of our assumptions in Cuba turned out to be clearly absurd, except the inarguable fact that another way we found, but that is another story.

So I landed in Paris and got off the plane with my bag of assumptions. But this bag was only one of five I had, and unlike my bag of assumptions, the other four had weight. One carried my 288 megahertz laptop, that was something like ten years old. It had gone with me to Finland, and went with me back again. It had gone to me to Mexico, and still it hasn't slowed. It had been sent to me in Cuba. But all t'is another adventure. A second laptop bag had no laptop in it, but rather the odds and ends convenient to have on a trek such as this, such as my military issue canteen, and my lovely bag of mixed nuts. The other two bags I waited for : one was a travelers back pack, and one was a duffel bag, each weighing 20 kilos. Altogether my equipment weighed in at just over 45 kilos. I waited for the bags and I did not know how to feel. I was not nervous and I was not afraid, neither was I excited. I did not know what would happen, only that I had just walked through a door and down a path and over a bridge, and I would not look back.

After some waiting my bags came and I put them on the trolley upon which I had been sitting. I walked through immigration and out into the long hall of the airports. Ten days ago I'd bought a ticket to Marseille where a friend I met in Havana lives, but nine days ago I changed my mind. A colleague I happened to work with came across news of the energy conference in Madrid. Ha, it t'was on the twenty sixth, and I had a layover in Paris on the twenty fifth. I figured there was more traffic between Paris and Madrid than Marseille and Madrid, and so Paris to Madrid would be cheaper, though this turned out to be wrong.

I bought a telephone card with credit and I phoned up this stranger in Paris, who offered to hang on to some of my stuff, as I trekked out across the continent.

Hello, I said, It's Eerik from Cuba.

From couch surfers, oh yeah. Did you get my email ?

No, I replied.

She proceeded to explain that over the weekend the land lord got her to move all her stuff out of her apartment for he was going to paint it. The next day the apartment was leased to someone else for presumably better pay. It seemed she had more problems than I, so from her I could make no request. I thanked her and said that it wasn't a problem. We said our goodbyes and that we'd discuss next time we both were in Paris. I hung up the phone with shock in my heart and the simple fear in my mind of knowing that I had just walked through a door and down a path and over a bridge, and to hell with walking back.

What can I say, I had no idea what would happen. Suddenly I had to face to truth, that I seemed to be totally screwed. And such is a hard thing to do. I had a hundred pounds of gear and a bad case of bronchitis. Four days ago, next to our dwelling, a garbage fire was lit and for two days it burned. Long ago I had lost my reason, but only now I had lost my rhyme.

Eerik Wissenz
July 2007